. . . In crescendo, its biting sting tolls against the walls of my inner-self, revealing in its pure tone an emptiness nourished on a banquet of isolation. A feast of famine fit for the king of nothing . . .

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

My therapist told me today that I’m in the midst of a “spiritual realignment” -- that I’m shifting. Sounds to me like car trouble on the journey towards enlightenment! For me, all meaning in life came from the external world, but now all meaning seems to be coming from my experience of my inner-life. As a consequence, I now hate my job – or at least it seems that way, because it has nothing to do with my journey. My job used to blow my hair back on a regular basis. Now it just blows on a regular basis. I’m happy that much of what used to be important to me is no longer important. But I’m struggling with myself as this shift occurs. This week’s prompt got me thinking about how much time I’ve wasted in the pursuit of a career that I once thought was noble and worthwhile. Now I just feel stupid. My therapist says, “Be patient. All will be revealed in time.” Ok. I’ll wait. In the meantime, I write . . .

If these walls could talk . . .

If these walls could talkThey would wait, like painted soldiersStoically, at attentionHep – Hut!Bravely adorned with art hung on nailsA bizarre crucifixion indeedBearing witness to their own silent scream

Sixteen years in quiet reconnoiterThese wallsObserving and patientThe lonely march of a careerIf they could talkSwollen with secretsA life caged within and spentLike a thunderous cannon chargeThough only more slowlyA skein of yarnSnagged on life’s momentumUnraveled and shapeless as air

Oh, to witness the body of life’s workThe measure of a man, Ha!Frenetic and pulsingYet another day discardedThe hollow clank of the refuse binMarking the passage of timeLike a galvanized metronomeAlas the canvas is blankWiped clean each day by the clothOf the unlived life

If these walls could talkIf these walls could talkA great and urgent cryWould pierce the darknessAn audible beacon of hopeTake flight!Discard this mortal themeAnd ascend my brother

Saturday, November 25, 2006

Holidays are great! So much free time to ponder the imponderables of life! One of my favorite things to do is go exploring. My favorite place to dig is in my memory. I’ve been digging around a lot lately and found a cache of old poetry buried in a secret place. I unearthed this old poem and blew the dust off it and gave it a good scrubbing. I think I’ll just hang it here to let it dry for a while before I put it away again for safe keeping.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

This is something I wrote many years ago. I guess it was true then, but now its mostly a lie.

Hope to Die

Fingers crossed behind my back I swear this is the truth!I sharpened my deceptive skills against a stone cold youth.Trying merely to survive.As young as four (but I’ll say five!)If only they had heard my cries.And so, I swear I had to lie.Cross my heart and hope to die.I love the thought of suicide.

Monday, November 13, 2006

If you read this blog, then you’re aware that I have food issues. Not plural, just one – I eat when I’m highly stressed and lately, that’s most of the time. I wanted to talk to my therapist about it this morning, but I had an amazing dream last night, and dream work takes precedence over everything, so we didn’t talk about donuts. Instead, we talked about my dream, in which I was required to cry all of my tears into a cup and then somehow, the depth of my tears would be the ultimate measure of my soul. No, really! It seems bizarre that I can be undergoing this phenomenal spiritual transformation, and tap into the limitless power of the Universe, but remain helpless to a box of donuts.

My last post featured my Ego – Center Stage! It thinks I’m trying to kill it with all of my Consciousness work and it acts up like a three-year old regularly. I try very hard to keep my ego in check, because if I don’t, it shames me. Robin ( r’s-musings) suggested in her comment to an earlier post that she tries to follow this motto “What we resist persists.” Recognizing the brilliance in her suggestion, I thought I’d give it a try. I’d been trying to stuff my ego in a box over the last few weeks without success, and its been making me depressed. So I decided to hand the pen to my ego. It worked! I wrote a completely self-centered poem and discharged all of the excess ego energy that needed to get out. I felt like a million bucks after that (thank you Robin!) and my ego has been behaving nicely ever since.

Back to the eating . . . I figured if it worked for my inner-child, why not for my inner-glutton? So I wrote a powerful poem motivated by the energy usually reserved for eating. Again, it felt very good to get all of this on paper and I feel adequately discharged (again, thank you Robin!!) I haven’t eaten any crap yet today and I don’t feel the urge to either. Perhaps we’ve discovered a new form of therapy!!! By the way, I’m not really a glutton and to look at me, you wouldn’t know I have an eating issue – but God! It sure feels that way, especially when it gets out of control. (

Dr. Seuss on a Sugar Bender

Sugar is my enemyAlthough it sort of grows on meMy stomach disproportionatelyTo what my waist size ought to be

Ate six donuts in one dayHow much more now do I weighContributing to tooth decayI wish there was a thinner way

How much crap can one guy eatAnd did I really need that treatSurrendering to every sweetGoddamn! I really miss my feet

The snacks that I should most eschewI seem to buy and bite and chewI’ll eat the paper package tooAnd then the bag before I’m through

My hunger to be un-uniqueHas put me up that well known creekAlas my boat has sprung a leakThat’s what I get for being weak

Saturday, November 11, 2006

I’ve often struggled writing poetry (and prose) because my ego gets in the way. My inner critic blocks the creative flow and micro-analyses the placement of every letter. However, I’ve found that the ego is an indispensable component of any quality writing. The ego picks up the pen and sets the time aside and the self eventually reveals itself, often in the most beautiful way. The secret is to find the proper balance between ego and self, for it is not possible to write with one and not the other. Truly it is a love-hate relationship but a necessary duet.

Sometimes, the best thing we can do is just let the ego hold the pen and have at it. My ego has been a royal pain in the ass lately. So I thought I’d let my “self” sit this one out and see just what my ego had to say, if given his own voice. The results were surprising and can be viewed below.

“There is no greater Sin after the seven deadly than to flatter oneself into an idea of being a great poet.”

—Keats

“Another and unexpected development in modern poetry is that writing the damned stuff is now often more popular than reading it. Poetry has become the favorite nostrum or therapy in this narcissistic age. I have looked into the matter carefully and can report that there are now 2,578,000 more poets in the United States, Argentina, and the Western Isles of Scotland than there were thirty-five years ago.”

—Alfred Kazin

For a wonderful treatment of the above subject, and a thoroughly enjoyable review of what’s wrong with poetry today, may I suggest you read the Worden Report.

Here’s my ego-laden poem – It’s a fun jab at myself, but believe me, I very much needed to say this! All I can say now is that after I wrote this, I feel so much more honest.

It's All About Me!

I am an egomaniacmy “I” did say to meAdmiring every syllableIn blissful reverie

My opinion, this night’s headline newssupplants the cataclysmicOf course! But what wouldyou expect from one so narcissistic?

Arise the Sun! Be still the Moon!The Earth turns as I sayThe stars dance ‘cross the heavensIn my grand celestial play

My inventions go un-patentedNo fear of duplicationNor can I spare a momentout of my self-adoration

I needn’t say I love youFor such words are insincereBesides we both know who among usI do hold most dear

I unscrewed the top of my head todayJust for funPlaced my dome carefully on the tableFor laterFished around with a tiny teaspoonCarefullyYou wouldn’t believe what I found in thereHidingMy first dog’s nameA linoleum floor I don’t recognizeThe one egg my dad ever cooked for meThe textured pattern of my grandmother’s carpetA garden where dead things grewThe incident with the crutchThe window I broke and lied aboutAnd things too horrible to admitI screwed the top of my head back onFor good

Cruelty Disclaimer

Sara Bareilles Stripped

About Me

My journey into wholeness began in 1991 following my entry into law and my retreat into psychotherapy. Perhaps it started in college when I pursued a degree in psychology. Regardless of when it started, my desire to heal myself has fueled me on the most amazing journey imaginable. While on this path, I’ve reclaimed myself, received the answers to age-old questions, and discovered the meaning of life itself. I am plugged into the Universe and receive its blessings everyday. These are my thoughts, poems, experiences and close-calls.